Todos os capítulos de Her Neglected Scars: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

A collective time skip of twenty minutes finds me standing in my own bedroom, silently cursing my existence into the depths of hell.I am packing a small duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, while my back remains firmly turned toward the rest of the room.Sofia is lounging across my velvet armchair, her muddy boots propped up on the edge of the mattress as she casually chews on a bowl of grapes, her eyes glued to the small television set blaring a Russian talk show in the corner.She looks completely unbothered, which sends a spike of suspicion straight into my gut.Why isn’t she panicking?If I move into Konstantin’s quarters, the risk of him discovering the raw, bloody tracks she carved into my back skyrockets to a lethal certainty.She should be doing everything in her power to keep me away from him.As if reading the dark thoughts spinning in my head, Sofia takes a slow sip of her drink and speaks up, her eyes never leaving the television screen. “The Morozov lord seems to b

“To tell you the truth . . .” I whisper, my voice cracking.“I . . . I . . .”The confession scrapes against the back of my throat.I can feel the hard rim of the marble counter biting into the small of my back, pinning me beneath the immense weight of Konstantin’s shadow.His grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen; it remains a heavy, burning iron cuff, forcing my blood-smeared palm into the harsh moonlight spilling through the window.His jaw is set so hard that a sharp cord of muscle twitches beneath his tanned skin.Those amber eyes don’t just look at me—they dismantle me, gear by gear, looking for the rot my father planted inside my ribs.I am so tired.Every single bone in my body feels ground to dust after years of standing straight, of smiling through the dark while Caesar took his pleasure in making me bleed.The urge to just drop the mask, to let the ugly, jagged reality spill onto the clean tiles between us, is a physical ache in my chest.“Say it, Evangeline,” he says.His free h

“Who’s there?” Irina’s voice slices through the quiet of the morning corridor, sharp and completely stripped of her usual honeyed sweetness.I don’t wait to see if she catches me.I pivot on my bare heels and slip into the nearest empty guest suite.I shut the door with agonizing slowness, letting the latch click into place without a sound.My lungs burn.Irina.The sweet, tragedy-stricken cousin who brings me lemon jam and smiles softly when Konstantin ignores me.She isn’t just an obstacle in this house; she is a snake wearing silk, sleeping in the same bed as the Benningtons.I stumble toward the en-suite bathroom, my knees slamming against the tiled floor.I barely manage to grip the porcelain rim before my stomach violently rebels.I flush the toilet, my body shaking so hard my teeth chatter.I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean my forehead against the cold porcelain.I drag myself up, rinse my mouth, and force my reflection to smooth out.Ghost-pale. Dark hair tangl

“What is a Bennington’s daughter doing in this room, Mr. Morozov?”The question lands like a physical blow, drawing twenty pairs of cold, hardened eyes straight toward me.The older board member with the jagged white scar splitting his left eyebrow leans forward, his palm pressed hard against the mahogany table, knuckles stark white.My lungs contract, a familiar spark of panic flaring in my chest, but twelve years of having my spine corrected by my father’s cane ensure my shoulders don’t drop a single millimeter.I remain perfectly upright, chin tilted at the precise angle of a woman who belongs exactly where she stands.Konstantin’s frame shifts beside me.I feel the dangerous drop in temperature the second his jaw tightens, his golden eyes narrowing as he prepares to tear the older man to pieces.But I don’t let him.If I let my husband fight this battle, I remain the fragile spy princess they all think I am.“I am here,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence with crisp clari

The Italian’s grip on my wrists feels like burning steel, pressing my arms flat against the concrete pillar.Bloodshot eyes glare into mine, stinking of stale vodka and cheap tobacco.Six months ago, he was a billionaire wearing a tailored Tom Ford suit. Now he looks like an animal ready to snap my neck.“You ruined me, you fucking Bennington bitch!” he screams, his voice tearing through the empty underground garage.He jerks my right arm down, slamming my knuckles hard into the stone wall behind me.Pain shoots straight up my elbow.I don’t cry out. My father taught me at fourteen that screaming only gives men an audience.Instead, I bring my heel down with everything I have directly onto his foot.He roars in pain, his grip loosening for a split second.I yank my right arm free and drive my palm upward into his jaw.His head snaps back.I twist out of his reach and bolt toward the glass doors leading back into the executive lobby.“Get back here!”A heavy hand snatches the back of m